Underground
by Silver Queen
Summary: Not all stories have happy endings. A story from Gotham’s underground.
1. Prologue

**Title:** Underground

**Author:** Silver Queen

**Rating:** PG-13

**Summary:** Not all stories have happy endings. A story from Gotham's underground.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the DC universe, nor the rights to any type of drug used in this story. MDT, as far as I'm aware, is not an actual drug. Apologies if it is.

* * *

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It all started with a drug. That's how things down this end of Gotham usually start, isn't it?

I'd run out of whatever drug I was doing that week – it could have been pot but I think it was more likely to be cocaine – and I'd gone down to my dealer. He's a pretty cool guy, a bit more expensive than some maybe but he gives clean stuff so I don't worry about crashing out in the middle of a strip.

He had no more. That's pretty unusual so maybe had I stopped to think then I wouldn't be sitting in this dingy hotel room telling you the story of my life as if it will change anything. Kids – and adults too – are always going to try drugs they don't know about.

He had nothing. Not an ounce of coke, not a single pill. But he said that there was a new drug out there, one that didn't have a street-cred yet but was guaranteed to do the job. He gave me a name but I've forgotten what it was – miracle something, or medical something – it just didn't seem important at the time. I'd like to think that if I wasn't so hyped and needing a fix so bad that I would have turned it down. But I didn't.

At first the drug was sweet. There was a feeling of invincibility, a high so great I wanted more. There was no way to describe it. It was like everything else I'd ever taken lumped together and multiplied by twelve. I felt fucking great.

Then things started happening. They weren't bad so at first I didn't pay much attention to them. I was a little stronger, a little faster. I don't know how to describe it, I was just _better_. I had weird ideas; I wanted to hurt people.

So I went after crooks. Not known ones, not people the Batman would have dealt with – I had it on good authority that he was real and I didn't really want to mess with him – but little shadows and people that never got caught.

To start with, it was cool. Once I'd finished at the club I'd put on whatever outfit happened to be handy – sometimes I was so high I'd forget to do that and go out starkers – and take a pill. It was great; the best high I'd had in years.

Let me tell you, chasing crooks through Gotham's streets is one way to get an adrenaline buzz, and as choked up on MDT as I was it was choice. Sometimes I did stuff that wasn't possible – I mean, humanly possible, not just impossible for a crack-smoking whore like me – but I just didn't care.

Case in point, one time I was cracking down on a trader that I knew sold bad shit. He'd mix and match and never tell his customers what they were buying. I'd had co-workers die from his crap.

So I was coming down on his ass, meaning to cause him some pain. He was a smart asshole though; he'd heard the tales of Batman – maybe even of me in my vigilante rages – and hired bodyguards. They weren't particularly smart but they were big, strong and most likely doped up on something bad.

And I killed them all. _With my bare hands_.

Pretty amazing? No shit.

I'd never killed a person before. I'm not saying that I'm broken up about it; I'm not, but it was odd to wake up the next morning, coming down from my high to think 'I just killed three men'.

And I liked it.

It was the greatest rush that I'd ever had. The highest high _ever_.

That day I didn't take my pill, just incase the police actually cared who killed the asshole; no point in stirring up any more trouble.

The thing was, the police didn't care. There was no mention in the newspaper – I'd checked – no investigation – I kept my ears open – and most of all, no one thought I had anything to do with it.

So next night, I went out again, strung up high on MDT and busted another sick-trader. And again, and again.

It was only when I started tapping the more noticeable crooks – the murders and rapists who disguised themselves as respectable citizens – that people started noticing.

Police were suddenly swarming the clubs, looking for anyone mysterious. Hell, _everyone_ in Gotham is mysterious, right down from the kid who works tables at the club up to that high-top wass'his'name – Wayne.

Then Batman started poking around. You can tell when he decides to stick his nose in 'cause more and more people end up in police custody with broken bones.

I didn't care. Heck, I was so high on dope that I wouldn't have cared if purple double-headed monkeys started poking around our club. As it went I did my usual stuff, got more shit from my dealer, worked my strips and drank. Life in Gotham underground doesn't change much.

Still, I went out, made a few stiffs and came back in the morning. The coppers were awful upset next day. Their information was tellin' 'em that a six-foot muscle bound hulk was knocking off guys on their doorstep and they were missing him. I'd be pretty upset too if people thought I was that incompetent.

Like I said, this MDT that I used was great. When you do drugs you don't care about the side effects – otherwise you wouldn't be doing drugs, after all. I hadn't even noticed that I'd changed; no body else had either, I think, else I would have been watched a bit more closely.

So the police were looking for this huge guy and I didn't see anything wrong. Clouded judgement and all that. I just figured, if I thought about it at all, that the cops were just as useless as I'd always thought.

That was when things started to go bad.

I went to my dealer to get more MDT and he tells me that I shouldn't be using it cause it'd killed all its users. Thing is, in Gotham all druggies usually end up dead, so I didn't pay him much attention. Till he told me he wouldn't sell.

I snapped his neck and stole his stash. I'm not proud of that, old Denny had been a friend, but when you're on drugs all you care about is getting your next hit, not about hurting anyone you care about.

I knew then that I was sliding. That whatever was in these pills was worse then anything I'd ever taken before. Fuck, I'm ashamed it took me so long to work it out.

It wasn't the killing that woke me up, shit, I don't know what did, but I had to get out of there. I didn't move fast enough though.

Police were swarming my club one night, askin' for me. I don't know how they managed to connect Denny's death to me, but I got the hell out of dodge before they found me. Likely, it was Batman who did the math.

By that time I was runnin' low. MDT burns fast, I guess, or maybe I'd just lost track of time – that happens sometimes.

I moved to another club; turning tricks is always a good way to make money and nobody care about _another_ crack whore.

This time though, I swore I'd quit MDT. Not the other things, I couldn't do without those, but I'd at least quit that.

I did. For a while anyway. I felt awful, not like in withdrawal or anything – I've experienced that enough times to know what it felt like – but just flat out awful. I was sick, wishing I could die, and feeling very much like I was. I had headaches from hell, I think it was 'cause the MDT was messin' with my head. I never paid much attention in school – when I bothered to show – but I knew the changes that had happened to me couldn't have occurred without some big fuck up.

For the few days I was on a downer I realized just how bad it had gotten. I started to wish I had paid more attention to Denny when he told me what the drug was called, or to the news when it showed all those stories about scientists releasing body changing drugs to us folk underground 'cause nobody would fund their tests. I felt real bad for weeks; I thought I was dying.

Then I started to have black outs. At first it wasn't bad, just a few seconds, a few minutes, a few hours, then I woke up with a few hundred in cash and a new bag of (opened) MDT. I freaked.

Once I was back on the MDT things seemed to get better – I didn't feel so bad for one, but I started killing again. This was a new side of Gotham, so there were new criminals to take down.

It was almost an exact repeat of the first time. I'd kill, the police would catch up, I'd leave, I'd try and quit, I'd wake up with a new bag of MDT and it would start all over again.

I don't know how many times it went round; those days are all messed up in my mind, but three or four is the closest I can think of.

So anyway, I wound up here, at the end of my stash, in a crummy hotel room that I imagine my life would look a lot like if it were a shape, and dying.

Score one for Batman, maybe? I don't know. He chased me out of all my hideouts, so maybe. Maybe he's waitin' outside my window so he can be assured that I ain't no more of a threat. Maybe not.

So this is my last story, kid. Remember it and don't take strange drugs cause one day you could be me, dying from a drug that made you feel like a fuckin' **god**.

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Thanks for reading. Review, please! 


	2. Chapter The First

**Title:** Underground

**Author:** Silver Queen

**Rating:** PG-13

**Summary:** Not all stories have happy endings. A story from Gotham's underground.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the DC universe, nor the rights to any type of drug used in this story. MDT, as far as I'm aware, is not an actual drug. Apologies if it is.

* * *

* * *

The first thing Gordon noticed was the smell. He had been commissioner, and an officer before that, long enough to know what that smell was. Blood had a very distinctive smell, and this time it was almost strong enough to taste.

The second thing Gordon noticed was the new paint job on the wall. Or rather what he wished was a paint job. It was, in fact, the cause of the smell that had caused some of his men to empty their stomachs outside.

"Sir," one of the uniforms said as he caught sight of the commissioner. Gordon nodded to the man and looked around. The medical pathologist was finishing, and the body was ready to be carted off to the morgue for a complete autopsy.

All that was to be expected, of course, as well as the _apparent_ lack of Batman. It was, however, the body itself that interested him.

"It looks like someone launched a goddamn missile into the poor bugger," the uniform summed up his thoughts. The corpse's guts were hanging out of a hole in his stomach and it's back was completely destroyed.

"Up close," the commissioner agreed. The splatter patterns told him that, though what could do such damage at close range didn't immediately come to mind. A softnosed bullet might, but it was doubtable; the entry hole was too big.

"Any idea who he is?" Gordon asked, without much hope.

"No. But we actually have a witness." The uniform seemed pleased; a messy case like this was starting to look like it could be resolved.

"Oh?" The commissioner raised an eyebrow. "Have you questioned him yet?"

"Just the preliminaries. We're taking him back to the station house for a proper interview."

"Probably a good idea," Gordon huffed as he pulled his coat tighter. It was winter and winter in Gotham was never pleasant.

The commissioner stayed a little longer and watched as the body was bagged, then he left. He didn't go very far, only to a nearby alley way that was unpopulated. Or had been.

"Vic's name is Theo Blight. No known address. Main suspect is his girlfriend, Jenny Thompson," Batman's gravelly voice carried out of the shadows.

Gordon lit his cigarette. He had been trying to quit but the stress just kept driving him back to his packet of Camels. In the brief flicker of light from his lighter he saw the Batman in the shadows, though the light could never penetrate his darkness far enough to show him well.

"So what's the catch?" Gordon asked. It seemed a simple case, messy, but simple; rookies work. Which raised the question of why Batman was involved.

"Thompson's part of a drug ring I'm tracking." Thompson was only a little fish though, a user but not a dealer and as much as he detested it he couldn't alert them to his presence before he had found the supplier or they'd just pack up and move.

"Really? What are they selling? LSD?" Gordon took another drag of his cigarette and felt the dirty smoke settle in his lungs.

"No." There was a pause and the shadows became darker. "Something new."

Gordon couldn't help the shiver he felt. For all that the Batman was his colleague the commissioner wasn't stupid enough to not be afraid, and the menace in those two words was very real.

"Oh. So…" he trailed off when he noticed that the Batman was already gone.

* * *

"Oracle," Batman said as he perched atop a building, looking for all the world like one of the stone gargoyles that lined the edge.

"Batman," she replied over the comm-link. "I've run the search you asked for; no results as of yet but the police just got in an interesting tip over south side. I'll play it for you."

There was a moment of silence before the recording started. Batman was already on the move.

"_**Emergency Dispatch, how may I help you?"**_

"_Oh, god, oh god. You've got to get the police, you've got to get the police."_

"**_Stay calm, ma'am. Tell me what happened."_**

"_She killed him, I think she killed him, oh god."_

"**_Where are you, miss?"_**

"_Albion street. Near the club. Oh god."_

"**_Now ma'am. Will you tell me what happened?"_**

"_A… a drug deal, I think. Maybe it was just an argument. But she killed him, he's not moving. Oh god, a person shouldn't move like that."_

"**_Like what, miss? Can you explain?"_**

"_Like, like, oh god. She was, god, her eyes were red. Oh god."_

"Transcript ends there." Oracle's voice filled his ears. "She hung up, but the symptom matches what you've told me; it's a long shot but I thought you'd like to know."

"On it, Oracle," he responded gruffly. The club that had been mentioned was almost directly below him by now. The place was swarming with cops and somehow he knew they were the normal clienteles.

From where he perched he could tell that the victim had a broken neck; nothing else could make a head face that way.

Moving quietly through the shadows he listened in on what the police knew so far.

"_Vic's a banker down at 31st. Records clean, no drugs, no nothing. No drugs on him either."_

"_Dead approx. 1:30, give or take and hour."_

"_The head's been twisted right around, that'll take a pretty strong guy. Tall too, by the looks of things. Either that, or our guy was sitting down and that don't match the fall pattern."_

"_A couple a guys are checking out the club but they say they didn't see anything. When do they ever?"_

The pieces of conversation filtered into him over the still, cold air. The discrepancies over what the witness had called in and what the police were saying immediately tagged this as by one of the drug ring he was tracking. The advanced strength fit with the drug.

"Oracle," he began once he was back on the rooftop.

"All ready on it." Came the reply. "Vincent Melrose, 36, banker at 31st. No police records, school records are clean – though it does seem he was a bit of a bully – his bank statement was clean, no debts, and there were no problems at work."

"Could be a high school friend with a grudge," he said though he didn't think so. The death was too clean, impersonal. Someone with a grudge would be all for more pain. "Run a few checks on his acquaintances."

"On it, boss."

And, as Batman dropped down to intercept a mugging, the murder was shelved along with all his other problems.

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Please, don't forget to review and tell me what you think! 


	3. Chapter The Second

**Title:** Underground

**Author:** Silver Queen

**Rating:** PG-13

**Summary:** Not all stories have happy endings. A story from Gotham's underground.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the DC universe, nor the rights to any type of drug used in this story. MDT, as far as I'm aware, is not an actual drug. Apologies if it is.

**Author's notes: **Major thanks to my reviewers! robster72, Leighgion, Alhana-Antilles, K, all you guys. You guys rock!

* * *

The blustery wind was cold and the rooftops were slippery and icy as Robin swung through his patrol route. Batman was doing some undercover work as Matches Malone, so he was on his own tonight.

It wasn't so bad; the wind kept most people inside – criminals didn't like cold weather any more than regular people did – and there wasn't that much for him to do. Or so Tim told himself before the Batsignal lit up.

He hoped to god that the nutters in Arkham hadn't escaped.

He almost swore, but didn't in the end because he was to busy changing his flight path. Like his breath in the cold air, he could see his plans for a night sleeping evaporate into nothing.

When he arrived at the station house roof Commissioner Gordon was already standing outside with his jacket pulled tight. The elder man looked cold enough that Robin decided, with a pang of sympathy, not to shock him out of his skin with a sudden appearing act.

"Hey," he greeted, feeling strangely subdued. He knew that the Commissioner was Bab's dad, but he still couldn't talk to the guy like a friend. Must be subconscious connection, his brain mused; It could be, he only really saw the Commissioner when something was going wrong.

"Robin," Gordon replied with only a minimal jump and Tim decided that he done well enough. "Is Batman here?" The man peered into the darkness as though it would help him see the mysterious Dark Knight.

"Nah, he's busy." Tim shook his head. "Did you really need him?"

"No," the Commissioner pulled a sheaf of paper out of his coat. "Just give him this, would you?"

"Sure," Robin acquiesced, tucking the papers into a handy pocket. "Seeya, 'round." He waved and disappeared. Maybe he would get some sleep after all.

* * *

Matches Malone sat at the bar and slowly drank his beer. The place was a smoky, seedy dive in the cheaper side of Gotham and probably broke more health and safety regulations than he wanted to know about.

Still, he was there because Rogers was. Rogers was the only dealer he knew of that had direct contact with the supplier. And if his information was right then there would be a meeting tonight.

So far though, nothing had happened. Matches took another sip and stared aimlessly into the grimy mirror behind the bar. In it he could see a perfect reflection of Rogers. That was his reason for choosing that particular seat.

In the mirror Rogers looked at his watch and stood. Matches downed the last of his drink and followed the other man outside; not close enough to be considered as 'following' but still within range. It wasn't really necessary because of the BatTracker that Rogers unknowingly carried but Batman liked to keep his eyes on the suspect.

Too many people had died because of him.

After a short walk it was obvious where Rogers was going. The neighborhood boasted only one attraction for people like him. Matches slipped away and – after a quick costume change – became Batman once more.

The bar-cum-restaurant hadn't changed from the last time he had visited. It still sported the same security, the same customers and the same owner. It was simple to get inside.

"Penguin," from the shadows the voice growled, echoing just so. "Talk."

The fat, criminal bartender and owner did just that.

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Don't forget to tell me what you think!


	4. Chapter The Third

**Title:** Underground

**Author:** Silver Queen

**Rating:** PG-13

**Summary:** Not all stories have happy endings. A story from Gotham's underground.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the DC universe, nor the rights to any type of drug used in this story. MDT, as far as I'm aware, is not an actual drug. Apologies if it is.

**Authors notes:** Sorry about the delay in getting this up, but the 'changes' at wouldn't let me load it, or something.

* * *

* * *

Running through the near deserted streets of Bludhaven, the purse-snatcher wasn't expecting the attack. His victim's cries were fading as he lost her and the few people on the streets paid him no heed – his kind was far too common to be of interest.

So the big, black blur that knocked him flat came as a total surprise. He wasn't even able to put up a token resistance.

Nightwing removed the purse from the stunned thief's grasp as the man lay on the sidewalk. Had this been Gotham he would have called the police, but in Bludhaven it was useless to do so; the police took hours to get anywhere.

A lady turned the corner, following the same path that the would-be-robber had taken moments before. No doubt she was the owner of the purse in his hand.

"This belong to you ma'am?" He asked politely as she took in the scene. In response she snatched the dangling accessory and high-tailed it back around the corner at a speed he would have been hard pressed to match.

"Thank you, Nightwing," he mocked, his voice higher and lighter than usual. "You have my undying gratitude, Nightwing."

"Talking to yourself, shortpants? That's the first sign of madness, you know," Barbara Gordon's voice rang in his ear, via Oracles communications system.

"Only the first sign, Babs? No need to worry then," he replied cheerfully while scaling the building beside him. "I passed that a while ago."

"So you did, so you did," she agreed, laughing at their customary banter. "How _could_ I have forgotten that?"

"I don't know." He gave a theatrical sigh. "Maybe to make sure you don't forget again I'll have to pay you a visit and … remind you." Had she been present he would have accompanied the suggestion with a leer and wiggling eyebrows, but Oracle was safely holed up in Gotham Clocktower so he had to let his words work alone.

She laughed and Nightwing swung over the rooftops, searching for any other nightly mayhem to keep him busy.

"Yeah, yeah, FBW. Had a nice night?" she asked and Nightwing was instantly on guard. Whatever was coming next couldn't be good for him.

"It's been okay," he replied cautiously. "Nothing big."

"Well then," she said, her digitized voice amused. "It's a good thing I called." There was a pause and Nightwing waited for her to finish. "Penguin's sending a shipment over to Bludhaven. Get your ass over to the docks; ETA's in 20 minutes." She cut the line and Nightwing grumbled.

"Har, har. You just have to keep me on my toes, don't you Babs?" The docks were on the other side of the city and it would take him eighteen minutes to get there if he didn't stop for anything.

As it turned out he did stop – three attempted muggings – but he wasn't too late. Or if he was it didn't matter because the shipment was even later.

"This is it?" he asked dubiously, holding up a small plastic bag. In it there were roughly a hundred pills; a tiny amount for such elaborate trafficking.

"Looks like it, shortpants," Oracle said sounding equally frustrated. No amount of searching had turned up anything else. Even the guards, while not being particularly smart, had sworn that that bag was all there was. "I'll send Robin around to pick it up. Maybe a few tests'll show what's so important about those little pills."

"Nah, don't bother. Let the kid get some sleep." Nightwing checked his watch, hidden under the sleeve of his glove so it wouldn't get broken. "I'll stop by the clock tower soon. There's not much else to do here."

"All right," Babs agreed. "But take care."

"Hey!" Nightwing feigned hurt. "When am I not careful?"

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Please reveiw!


	5. Chapter The Fourth

**Title:** Underground

**Author:** Silver Queen

**Rating:** PG-13

**Summary:** Not all stories have happy endings. A story from Gotham's underground.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the DC universe, nor the rights to any type of drug used in this story. MDT, as far as I'm aware, is not an actual drug. Apologies if it is.

* * *

. 

A few nights later the Chem-lab was all set up and in use. The Batcave Chem-lab was high quality, just like everything else. S.T.A.R. lab employees would have died to get their hands on some of its components.

The pills that Nightwing had dropped off had been tested, broken down and identified. Or partially identified.

"Computer," Batman ordered gruffly, "display all information on Miralco."

_**Processing** _

Miralco was the drug that Hourman, and subsequently his son, had used to gain their superpowers. The original drug had been safe to use, as it wore off after an hour, even though it had been a bit addictive.

This however, wasn't quite Miralco.

**_Displaying data_**

He scanned the files, discarding irrelevant information. It was laborious work but he continued steadily, noting names and interesting data.

"Computer, run search on all companies ordering these bulk ingredients." He paused a moment before listing off all the chemicals he had found in the pills.

**_Processing_**

**_Displaying data_**

At the top of the list is CarpCorp. While Batman hadn't actively suspected this it didn't come as a surprise. CarpCorp had only recently recovered from a scandal in which two of its scientists had been 'embezzling' the drugs they were creating.

"Computer. Run search on 'CarpCorp', cross referenced with 'Hourman', subsection 'Bannerman Chemicals'."

**_Processing _**

**_Displaying data_**

Had he been a man of words or loud expressions, Batman would have called 'Bingo' or 'Eureka' at the goldmine of information his computer had pulled up. He wasn't though, so he didn't.

However, it seemed that one of the scientists involved in the scandal had been creating something called, Miralco Dopamine Thiothixene, MDT for short.

It also seemed that the very same scientist had been working for Bannerman Chemicals along with Hourman, which explained how the Miralco recipe - or at least part of it – had come to be in his hands.

MDT had been designed as a cure-all, it appeared. Apparently, the scientists involved believed that by sending false chemical signals through the brain that they could send in into a sort of 'healing frenzy' which would even enable limbs to be regrown.

During the animal tests it had shown a remarkable 73 success rate but 58 of the animals had died.

The company had ruled that they should redesign the drug for a higher survival rate. The scientists on the other hand had been pushing to release the drug. When Dr. Dilworth had been fired it seemed that his friends inside had supplied him with enough MDT to test it on the street.

How they had managed to market it so well, on the other hand, meant that they weren't working alone.

Batman shut down the computer and began to suit up. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

. 

Fear of being dropped from the top of a building, Batman had found, was a sure-fire method of getting someone to talk. Coupled with the fear ingrained into the criminal society about the Batclan, it made gaining information quite easy.

Usually.

"I can't say! He'll kill me!" the dealer squealed as he scrabbled at the hand holding him over the edge.

"Who?"

"No way! He knows! It's the drug, man, it makes him like a Meta, he'll know if I tell you anything!"

Which was disconcerting at the least. Batman didn't like metas and that extended to wannabe metas as well. Added to the fact that he knew what the drug could do was leaving him with a very bleak picture.

"Lemme go, man. Please!"

A few minutes later the dealer was zip-stripped and waiting for the police and Batman was on his way across town.

* * *

. 

At night the entirety of Gotham was shady but there were parts of it that were worse than others. Places where the criminal element didn't just 'hang out' but _owned_.

That was where The Bull lived. He hadn't always lived there, before he had begun taking MDT he had lived in a tidy middle class apartment where you would expect to see a banker or accountant. Which had made sense, because that was what he had been.

When he had been young he had been hit by a car and been left with a broken back which meant he hadn't been able to walk again. MDT though, had not only given him back the use of his legs but had improved his weak and sickly body.

He stood at six foot three, now, and was thick with muscle. Along with his reddish skin, visible lack of neck, short stubbly hair and nose ring he did indeed look like a bull.

Which, to Rhys Matador, was irony in and of itself.

"So Dr. Dilworth." His voice was loud and harsh even when he was pretending to be genial. "When will the next batch be ready?"

"Tomorrow, sir," Dr Dilworth quavered. He was a thin reedy man and his intelligence had more to do with chemicals than street smarts, but he knew he was in trouble. He also knew he couldn't get out.

"Tomorrow. Hmmm." The Bull pasted a look of intrigue on his face. "That's exactly what you said yesterday."

"There was a … a problem, sir." Dilworth wrung his hands together. "With the transporting. Karl said…"

"I don't care what your puerile little scientist friends said!" Bull roared. The furniture in the room shook with the force of his anger. Another side effect of the drug. "You told me it would be here today!"

"I did. I did." Dilworth snivelled.

"Go," The Bull said after a minute and Dilworth scampered for the door. Before he reached Matador added, "oh, and Dilworth? It had _better_ be here tomorrow."

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